Impromptu Sexy Time
by Blighted Angel
Summary: Desmond. Altair. Naked men on couches. Cheesy love songs. Bottles of wine. You get the picture. Oh, come on. You have to read this now, don't you? Latest Installment: Shaun/Desmond
1. Desmond x Altair

_**Author's Note: **_Warning: may contain sexual references, demolition of the fourth wall, poking fun at bad slash fics, and overall insanity. Enjoy, my friends! I know I have. (This is just me fucking around. I love slash when it's written well xD)

_**Impromptu Sexy Time**_

Desmond had a massive case of the "What the fucks," and that wasn't even the tip of the ice berg.

He had just returned to his apartment in this bizarre alternate (yet strangely normal) dimension after a long night at work. Oh, how he _loved _his job. Please note the sarcasm. Mother fucker. He didn't get paid enough to clean up somebody else's puke night after fucking night.

But anyway, he was getting off track. Not that this train actually had one anymore. He had just returned home, after all. That was usually the part where every story stopped even pretending it was about something and turned to hollow smutty-sexy time. Which is where his case of "what the fuck" came in. You'd think he would have the experience to stop being surprised by now, but alas. It was not to be.

Because seriously. What the hell. What the hell was he supposed to make of this?

"Altair."

Said assassin-turned- whatever he was supposed to be in this alternate dimension, opened his eyes, lifting his head from the arm of Desmond's beat up old couch. That would have been standard enough. If he'd had any _clothes _on.

That's right. He was seeing this correctly. Altair was stretched out upon his couch. Stark naked. Giving him bedroom eyes that would make any fangirl worth her weight lose half of her blood supply.

"I was waiting for you. My love."

Desmond rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I noticed. What'll it be this time? Are we in a committed relationship? Having a one-night stand? Have we met before this, or are you a complete stranger who let himself into my house so he could have his way with poor unsuspecting me?" He snapped his fingers and grinned with feigned enthusiasm. "Wait, I know! You're my _cousin. _Or maybe my dad. Eww."

Altair wrinkled his nose. "Dude, no. Gross. Has that one happened before? I'm starting to lose track."

"God, I hope not."

"Ugh. Let's just get this over with, okay?" Altair groaned. "You know it's inevitable."

"Damn it. Fine. Go on. Back to the script."

"Right. Where were we then?" he purred, tone smooth as silk. It was seductive. Captivating. Everything anyone with a pulse could ever want. His naked flesh rippled as he stretched his arms above his head, those damn bedroom eyes lingering yet again upon Desmond's face.

"Draw me like one of your French girls, _mon amour_."

"Isn't that a line from _Titanic?"_

"It'd make me really happy…"

"Wait. Why are you speaking French?"

Altair scowled with frustration. "Because I'm…French in this story? I don't know. I don't write this crap. Stop interrupting me, I'm trying to get through this God-awful dialog."

Desmond pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "Sorry. It just…it hurts. Go on."

"It's your line now."

"Damn it. Uh. Of course I'll draw a portrait of you, creepy naked man whom I'm supposed to be in love with."

Altair shrugged. "Eh. Close enough."

And so, the two settled into a sexually-tense silence. Well, he supposed he shouldn't have said 'silence.' Rather, what would have been silence were it not for the appropriately dramatic background music. Desmond sat clutching a sketch pad that he was forced to believe he'd just had lying around, and Altair lay motionless, pretending to blush. It was really weird. God, why did people do this to them? The sheer diabolical evil contained in these stories made the Templars' misdeeds look like they'd stolen a pack of gum from a convenience store, or some crap.

Finally, after what seemed like an entirely inappropriate amount of time, Desmond was done with his half-assed sketch and Altair finally decided to put some clothes on, if a towel around his waist could be considered clothing.

"You've made me very happy, Desmond. Thank you." He slipped his arms around his waist and hugged him from behind.

"You're going to kiss me now, aren't you?" Desmond asked, dread mounting. (Hehe. Mounting). He already knew the answer, so he wasn't sure why he bothered questioning in the first place.

"Kinda have to."

"Fuck. All right, but don't choke me with your tongue like last time. That was unpleasant."

Altair frowned. "I said I was sorry about that."

"Yeah, sure you are. Just do it already."

Altair's gaze darkened with lust as he slammed Desmond up against the back wall, because this wouldn't be a make-out scene otherwise. And then…..

They made out. The end.

What? Don't you see enough of this in the thousands of other stories about Altair and Desmond?

Anyway. Yes. Back to the story. That was actually relatively painless. Desmond could almost feel a part of his mental scarring recede. Almost.

"Carry me, my love! A feast awaits us on the balcony!" Altair exclaimed with a flourish, leaping into Desmond's arms without another second of warning.

What irritated him the most was that his arms were already waiting to catch the son-of-a-bitch. Fucking fanfics.

"You're joking," Desmond dead-panned, even though he knew he wasn't.

"Not in the least. Now come on, carry me across the threshold. There's wine too. With luck, we can just blot this whole thing out."

"Hmm. It's worth a try."

So, damn it anyway, Desmond obeyed and carried Altair out to the balcony, which he somehow had despite living in a broken-down apartment building. Sure enough, a table for two sat waiting, candles lit, wine glasses full and an abundance of food Desmond didn't even feel like touching decoratively served upon gold and silver platters.

Also, because this scene wouldn't be picturesque enough without it, the moon was full in the midnight-black sky, the stars alight. The ocean waves crashed against a shore in the distance, and Desmond set Altair onto his feet, though the other man clutched him still and leaned into his embrace.

Desmond moaned. No, not the good kind. Sickos.

"Oh my God, this is so cheesy. Is it over yet?"

Altair chuckled from where his face was pressed into Desmond's shirt. "Wait for it."

"What…" Then, without further ado, yet another background song abruptly assaulted his ears.

He gasped in horror.

"Is that…_Celine Dion?"_

"Near, far, wherever you are…" Altair droned, tone high pitched and mocking.

"I hate you so much."

"No you don't. _Mon amour."_

Desmond shook his head, grabbed a bottle of wine from the table and started chugging. He needed to be drunk if he wanted to blot out the approaching sex scene.

* * *

This is what happens when you leave me alone with caffeine, bad slash fiction and Assassin's Creed after a long day of work. I think I'm delirious. Oh God, what did I just write? I can't stop laughing xD. I don't even know how Titanic ended up in there. Oh, the lols. I should go to bed now, before I hurt myself.


	2. Connor x Washington

_**Author's Note: **_I didn't intend for this to be anything more than a oneshot, but some of you asked for more and I just happened to think of more parodies. So here we have it. And oooooh, is this the most parody-worth pairing in the fandom.

I mean, seriously? Connor/Washington? Why does this pairing even exist yet? I expected it, but not so soon. The game is five months away from release. No offense to those who have written it. I just think it's absolutely ridiculous for reason's you're about to read.

That said, I give you Connor/Washington. Enjoy!

* * *

Connor was…confused, for lack of a better word.

Technically he shouldn't even exist in this form yet. All the world had of him was a handful of screenshots, a couple of trailers and a voice clip. And yet somehow here he was, standing in a tent in the middle of the wilderness. As far as he could tell, at least.

Why was he here? How? For what purpose?

He hadn't the slightest clue, but he suspected he was about to find out. In the most unpleasant of ways, he might add. Perhaps he should wander a bit, if only to gain his bearings. Being caught so off-guard disturbed him.

Before he could make his exit through the tent flap, however, someone entered into it.

It was none other than General George Washington of course, wearing nothing but a tight pair of breeches and a funny little hat with a feather sticking out of the…hey, wait a second.

"Is…is that a _beret?_"

Washington grinned, which was strange considering every portrait ever painted of him was packed with about as much emotional diversity as Kristen Stewart's acting.

"Yup. Took this little beauty from some dead French guy. He won't be missing it."

It was all he could do to keep himself from gaping.

_Just leave right now, Connor. Run while you still can. Warning! Danger. DANGER._

"Um. Right. My apologies, sir. I can't seem to remember how I came to be standing in your tent. I'll just, um…get out of your way."

To his surprise, the man did not seem displeased or even irritated. To the contrary, his expression was almost pitying.

"No one told you, did they? Oh dear. This is troubling."

What.

_What._

Oh God.

What was that supposed to mean?

"I do not understand."

"Connor, is it? I am sorry to break this to you, lad, but we are entangled in what is known as fanfiction. At present time, we are expected to fuck the shit out of each other until we fall into a sex-crazed stupor."

Connor could only stare, unblinking. "That's not funny, sir."

"Nor was it supposed to be. Well okay, a few chuckles would have been nice, but still. What I told you is true. We have to bang each other now. It's written down for us."

Funny, he couldn't seem to move his face. At all. "You're kidding me. You're fucking _kidding me."_

"Afraid not. I'm sorry. I'll try to make this as painless as possible for both of us."

"This…this cannot be. They warned me about 'fanfiction,' but…Oh, come on! This isn't fair. My game isn't even out yet."

Washington sighed and sat on the edge of his cot. "I know. I'm sorry."

"No. No no no, I do _not _have to do this yet! You dirty, lecherous scribes! Have they no shame, General? _Have they no shame?"_

"Let's just get this over with, Connor, okay? Better to do the deed and be done with it. Like pulling a thistle from one's foot, wouldn't you agree? Quick and painless. Now take off your clothes and bend over. "

Connor was not amused.

"This is just a bit different from a fucking thistle_, _General. I'm in no mood for your bad metaphors. And why do you get to top me_?_"

"Dude. I'm George Washington! We're already blaspheming history in about ten thousand different ways just by being here. I guess the person who wrote this thought it wouldn't seem quite as bad if you were the one getting railed instead of me."

"Yes, because my people haven't been victimized enough have they? I'm the poor, gentle little Indian boy dominated by the big, strong European guy, is that it? God, that's just _sick._ What is wrong with you people?"

"Oh you're being a bit overly dramatic, aren't you?"

"Tell that to the _millions of Indians_ who died of small pox and were sold into slavery almost three centuries ago when that Columbus douche-bag 'discovered' their land. I mean…I'm not saying we would _never _fuck under any circumstances, but how would these fans know if we would or not? _The game isn't even out yet. _Are they so fond of creating internet porn, they completely ignore any attempt at proper characterization? Go write some more Ezio/Leonardo if you're that desperate. Maybe some Altair/Malik too. Hey, why not go all the way and throw in a Shaun/Desmond just for kicks. It doesn't have to make sense as long as it's two dudes _butt-fucking._"

Washington listened to Connor's rant, but said nothing in response. Mostly all he could see in the general's face was grim resignation. "Please don't make this any more difficult than it has to be. Just bend the fuck over and we'll get down to business. I'll be gentle, I promise."

He'd be gentle. Oh, he'd be _gentle. _Well then, that just made _everything fucking okay _didn't it?

"I mean it, Washington. I am _not _having sex with you."

"But…" He looked crest-fallen. "It's in the script."

"To hell with the script! For God's sake man, you're the leader of a resistance. Resist!"

"I suppose that would make sense, would it not?"

"Yeah, I mean, think about it. These villainous 'fans' don't even know you yet and they _certainly _don't know me. How could they treat us like prizes for their harem? This is a video game, not a brothel."

"Yes, you're right. Of course you're right."

Washington nodded decisively, but Connor couldn't help but notice it seemed half-hearted. Ah. Disappointed, was he?

That raised far more questions than answers. Connor's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Wait a second. You were looking forward to this, weren't you?"

"Well…maybe a little." Hurriedly, he held his hands out in front of him in an attempt to placate a disgruntled Connor, who was currently reaching for his tomahawk.

"Now hold on a moment. Try to see this from my perspective. I'm in the middle of a war here, son. It has been a long time. A _very long _time."

That seemed to calm him a bit. His hand remained poised on the hilt of his weapon, although he no longer moved to draw it. "I…suppose that's fair enough. But be that as it may, I'm still not having sex with you."

"I understand." A pause. "Couldn't you just…you know. Help me relieve some tension?"

Connor remained still, though his eyes grew cold. "No."

"Let me see your endowment? Just once?"

"_No."_

"Can I have a kiss?"

"How many different languages do I have to say _no _in for you to understand?"

Washington stood up and started pacing the tent, hands threaded through his hair in exasperation. "Come on. I bought a new CD for this and everything! See, look! I thought you'd like it." Hurriedly, he plucked something off his bedside table and thrust it into Connor's hand, gazing into his face expectantly.

The Assassin raised an eyebrow. "Maroon 5? Dude, that is so ten years ago. Er…kind of. I guess. Wait, where the fuck did you get a CD in 1777? How does that even _work? _These band members won't be born for another two-hundred years."

"It doesn't matter, it's in the script!"

Connor's face was going to get stuck in a dead-pan expression. "You are one sad, strange little man, General."

"I know. My apologies. But if we could just…"

"Jesus Christ, dude! You have hundreds of other sexually deprived men right outside! Go find one!"

His eyes lit up and he smiled, as if the idea hadn't even occurred to him. "You think they'd go for it?"

"Only one way to find out."

"…you're so much more attractive though."

"_I will kill you where you stand."_

A sigh. "Fine, fine. Holy hell. I am never getting laid."

* * *

Yes, I had to crack that Kristen Stewart joke. It was necessary.

Now that I just committed about ten thousand different types of blasphemy, I think I've earned a few reviews, don't you? :D


	3. Shaun x Desmond

_**Author's Note: **_Hey guys! Thanks for all of the kind words. Honestly, I'm so flattered. I don't think I really expected so much attention when I first posted this. I'm glad I was wrong and that somebody other than me can get a laugh out of this shit.

Your wish is my command, my lovelies. And so, without further ado, I give you: Shaun/Desmond. Enjoy :D

Oh yeah, and there's a very minor spoiler for AC III mixed in. Nothing that would truly spoil anything, but it's referenced in vague terms. Just thought I'd put that out there.

* * *

Shaun didn't say this often. Okay, scratch that. Shaun _never _said this, but there were some things even he just couldn't understand. They were few and far between, mind you, but they existed all the same.

How many licks _does _it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop? _Was_ disco ever coming back? Where _was _Waldo? Why was Desmond sitting on his desk in the animus room wearing nothing but ripped up gym shorts and a nipple ring_?_

For the sake of his own sanity, he was going to forget that last sentence had ever existed.

Shaun dropped the stack of books he was holding and locked eyes with the bane of his existence, unamused. "Desmond, what the bloody hell are you doing?"

Hold on. This wasn't the animus room at all…no. Something was very wrong here. There was an animus in the corner, but why did his office look like a classroom? Why hadn't that stricken him as odd until just now? Had Rebecca snuck something into his coffee again? Was this all a hallucination?

Oh, bleeding fucking Christ, what was going on here? Why was Shaun wearing _blue jeans _with his signature sweater, and why were they in a _high school class room?_ This was all starting to look like the setup for a bad teen movie.

"Okay. I know this is going to sound strange, but Shaun…I need you to fuck me."

"…I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that. Say again?"

"I need you to fuck me. Or I suppose I could fuck _you. _Whichever you'd prefer."

There was an awkward silence of about ten seconds, in which both men somehow managed to keep a completely straight face. Shaun was the one who finally broke it, in a voice that could only be described as 'deadpan.'

"Desmond, if you don't get the hell off my desk right this second, I swear to fuck I will castrate you."

"Careful, I might…you know what? No. I can't even joke about this. I wouldn't like that. I wouldn't like it at all."

"Is this some kind of stupid joke, or do I need to check you into a mental hospital?"

Desmond gave a put-upon sigh, rolling his eyes in a way that suggested he'd explained this far too many times before. He cocked his hip and placed a hand upon it, irritated. "Look. I don't like this any more than you do, but I don't really have a choice, so please, for once in your life could you just sit down, shut up and let me give you a lap dance?"

Shaun was having a really bad nightmare. That was it. In the morning he would wake up and forget all about Desmond in a nipple ring threatening to give him a lap dance. Right?

Right.

"Mental hospital it is then. Got it."

"I'm serious. Okay, I'm sorry. I know this is all very confusing for you. Let me back up for a second. Have you ever heard of…"

"Wait. Don't tell me. Don't you fucking tell me this is…"

Desmond nodded, not looking sorry in the least. "You understand then."

"What? But I…this is unexpected, I have to admit. I'm just here to be the sassy British sidekick. People aren't supposed to..."

"Dream up sex-crazed fantasies about you?"

Shaun paced the length of the room and waved his arms emphatically as he spoke. He imagined he must have been a comical sight, and why not? Somebody might as well laugh at this because _he _was not fucking laughing. "Yes. That. And what's _more, _why the bloody fuck does it have to be you?"

Desmond looked appropriately insulted. "Wow. Thanks."

"I mean, seriously! No offense, mate, but I _hate _you. Why would I want to do several unnamed positions with you?"

"Don't ask me. From what I understand though, the more we hate each other, the more likely we are to be pared together."

He hid his face in his hands, more confused than he'd ever been in his life. "That doesn't make any sense!"

"Funny. That's what I thought when I saw what they did to me at the end of Assassin's Creed III."

"What?"

"Nothing. You don't wanna know."

"…right."

"So, anyway. Here we are. What should we do about this?"

"You know what? Fine, what the hell. Desmond, do your worst."

"Wha…really?"

"Yes _really, _do I look like I'm kidding? If these lunatics are determined enough we're going to have to do the dirty eventually anyway, so we might as well get it the fuck over with."

Desmond shot him a shit-eating grin Shaun was sure would haunt him for the rest of his miserable existence, then lunged forward, grabbed his arm and ripped off his sweater in one smooth motion. No really, one move and his shirt was just _gone_. How does that even work anyway?

Some things were best left unknown, even for Shaun Hastings. And so, he calmly let the son of a bitch shove him back-first onto the desk; let the bloody fiend lock lips with him. Let him suck on his _neck_ for God's sake (honestly, the things he did for a laugh).

Then he promptly smashed the back of Desmond's head with a paperweight, laughing merrily as he rolled him off the desk and used him as a stepping stool on the way down. By accident, of course.

Maybe he should say something cheesy about naughty students staying after class, like in the soap operas. He wanted to stay in _character _after all.

Whistling a happy tune, he picked up the remains of his sweater and slung it over his shoulder, vowing to find some way to mend it as he skipped his way over to the door. He pushed it open and made to walk on through, but before he could do so, Desmond's voice shouted to him from where he'd left him, face down on the floor.

"Well played."

Shaun gave an uncharacteristic chuckle. He figured he might as well. He was already out of character in the original version of this story anyway, because Shaun absolutely refused to believe any sane version of himself would ever touch Desmond. With a _thirty _foot pole.

"Thanks! I thought so too."

"I'll pay for the sweater."

"Damn right you will."

* * *

Okay, I'm sorry. I couldn't resist the jab at AC III's ending. I'm still bitter. But, anyway. God, I'm still laughing. I laugh at my own jokes. What does that even say about me? I thought the end was a nice touch. Glad I decided to add those last lines about the sweater ;)

Hope you guys enjoyed! Any requests for the next one? Maybe it's time for Ezio/Leonardo.


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